Song of the Rose
by Lady Stormbraver
Summary: The girl liked to sing. / Even a rose in misery has her song. / One-shot, canon-era, slightly AU.


**A/N: Hello lovely people! I wrote this one-shot a year or so ago, then today I edited it a bit and figured it was high time I posted it. Eponine and Gavroche are my favorites, and the world needs more Thenardier sibling stories.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own _Les Misérables,_ hence the whole stunning-lack-of-happy-endings thing. I also don't own the briefly-mentioned _Cendrillion_ ("Cinderella" in French). I do, however, own any song lyrics I've included in this story; they come solely from my brain, and I went so far as to edit out a few lyrics from the musical that originally were included. No public domain issues here, thank you. ;)**

 **Without further ado, enjoy!**

* * *

 **{Song of the Rose}**

The girl liked to sing.

She wasn't very good at it— her voice was too loud, too warbly— but she still thought it fun, and her sister seemed to like it, and even her parents cooed that she "had the darlingest voice they'd ever heard!"

Even the baby liked her voice better than the Lark's, which was saying something indeed. The Lark's voice was soft, melodious, light and fairylike; hers was lilting and strong and almost unfitting for a six-year-old girl. He would perk up and listen when the Lark sang while she worked; everyone did, for her voice was lovely. Yet whenever _she_ sang, the baby would lift his chubby little paws and reach for her, and she would never admit to anyone how much it touched her heart to lift the baby up in her arms and cuddle him for a moment when nobody was looking.

The baby didn't get a lot of cuddling, except from her and sometimes the Lark. Maman had never wanted a boy; she didn't know what to do with them, and was much more comfortable raising her two little girls.

At first, she hadn't liked him either; he squalled all night, and she would bury her head deeper into her pillow and wonder if he would ever shut up. Maman eventually got tired of going to him, and stopped— but then one night the Lark, who evidently was just as tired of hearing him cry as she was, stepped in.

Unaware that the girl was watching her critically from her bed in the corner of the bedroom, the Lark crept over to the little basket where he slept (or more accurately cried) and got to her knees, rocking the basket gently back and forth and singing softly of castles on clouds and ladies in white and her dreams of being loved.

"What are you doing?"

The Lark had jumped, whirling around to see the girl sitting upright in bed, peering at her out of curiosity. "I— I'm sorry, Eponine." She'd scrambled to her feet, her pale face turning pink. "I thought you were asleep!"

"What are you doing?" she'd repeated, throwing back the bed sheets and tiptoeing across the floor in her pink nightgown. "It's just the baby."

The Lark had nodded. "Yes, but look— he stopped crying."

And so he had. He was looking up at the Lark with wide hazel eyes, and there were tear streaks on his little cheeks.

Eponine had observed him quite matter-of-factly. "So he did. I didn't know you knew babies, Cosette."

The Lark had shrugged her thin shoulders. "Me neither." A pause. "Do you want to sing to him?"

She had laughed, with a toss of her nut-brown curls. "Me, sing? I know I'm not good, even if Maman and Papa tell me so."

"What does a baby care?" the Lark had pointed out in her quiet way, and so it was that a rather disgruntled Eponine found herself getting to her knees beside the basket.

She wracked her little brain for a tune to sing (what _did_ babies like to hear?) and, coming up dry, glanced up at the Lark. "Mind if I borrow your song?"

The Lark shrugged again. "Be my guest."

And so Eponine had adapted it to her own tastes, singing of a prince awaiting her in her own castle upon a cloud.

It was a curious thing; the baby had stared up at her in wonderment, then— miracle of all miracles— he'd smiled.

And although she would die before she admitted it, Eponine's heart was lost.

From that moment forward, things had changed, although the Lark was the only one who ever knew it, knew the way Eponine would creep over to his basket every night and sing him to sleep. There were some nights when she let the Lark join in (when she was in a particularly benevolent mood), and with her soft influence, the waif unconsciously showed Eponine how to be a loving big sister.

Eponine began to feel that maybe the Lark wasn't so bad after all; though timid and quiet, she was sweet and generous with what little she had— and she wasn't stupid, as Eponine had previously thought.

Cosette saw the softer side of Eponine, and realized that she wasn't intentionally cruel— she merely mimicked her parents, having no other examples of how to treat others. As it turned out, Eponine was funny, smart, and imaginative.

And so the messy beginnings of a friendship blossomed, although the two girls agreed that neither one would tell a soul. During the day, Eponine still acted like a spoiled brat, and Cosette still did all the housework around the inn and suffered beatings from the irate Thenardiers, but at night when the others were asleep they would sit by the baby's basket and talk.

"Saved you some bread," Eponine greeted in a rough but cheery whisper one night, rummaging in the pocket of her pink coat until she produced a hardened crust of bread. "Sorry it's the end of the loaf, but it's all I could get before Maman noticed me nick it."

But Cosette accepted the crust eagerly, with a cry of, "Thank you! I haven't eaten all day."

"I know." Eponine shook her curly head. "Don't worry about that anymore. I'd give up my own supper bread rather than let you waste away; besides, I get two more meals, and you don't." Not wishing to linger on her own generosity, she quickly changed the subject. "How's the baby tonight?"

Cosette shrugged her too-thin shoulders as she peered into the basket. "The usual. I noticed he was a bit fussy earlier; if he wakes up, he'll be even more cranky, and you'll have to sing him to sleep again."

Eponine rolled her eyes and pretended to look annoyed. "Good-for-nothing brothers. Always wanting stuff from you." But if one looked carefully they would see a tiny smile playing on her face in the shadows.

"I feel sorry for the poor thing," Cosette murmured softly. "He doesn't even have a name, and he's a whole year old now."

"Gavroche," Eponine replied decisively, as if she'd been considering this for awhile now.

"Gavroche?" Cosette repeated in surprise before shrugging again. "It isn't a very nice name, but I suppose it suits him."

"Of course it does! _I_ came up with it." Eponine whispered roughly, with a toss of her chestnut curls and a twinkle of her amber eyes. Cosette smiled knowingly and got to her feet, bidding her friend and the baby a soft goodnight.

Once Eponine was alone with her little brother, she softened as she leaned over the basket and whispered, "Hey there, Gavroche. Sorry you were born into this family, but I s'pose we didn't get much choice in the matter, did we? But don't worry— the Lark and I are gonna make sure you turn out alright. I promise." And with that, she smoothed the thin blanket that covered the baby with a tender little hand, then got to her feet and padded across the dark room to her own snug bed with one thought:

 _Maybe having a brother isn't so bad after all._

* * *

The girl liked to sing.

She didn't sing as blithe and carefree as she had when she was younger; now it was mainly a distraction from the work that left her exhausted and cross at the end of the day.

For the Lark had flown from their disheveled nest with her new Papa Bird, leaving Eponine to take up the broom she'd left behind and take care of the household tasks her parents neglected.

She couldn't be angry with Cosette, though; she complained under her breath about the work, but secretly she was happy that her friend had found a home.

If only her own home wasn't so dysfunctional.

But it wasn't all bad; there was Gavroche, who was three now and always getting into some sort of scrape. He was the reason she kept singing; even on the bad days, when Papa yelled and the customers were rude and she and Azelma had their sisterly spats, he was always tagging along after her with his cherub cheeks and happy smile and "Wait for me, Ep!"

So she sang, even when her voice was rough with the tears she was too proud to shed. How could she not, when there was a little sunbeam following her wherever she went?

Oftentimes, it was a little tune she made up on the spot; she didn't know many songs except the questionable ones drunken customers warbled at night, and she'd decided that even though they were jolly, they weren't the type of things she wanted her little brother repeating. So she'd rack her brain for some little ditty that would fit her current situation.

While she tended the fireplace and was covered in ashes, she pretended she was the lovely _Cendrillon_ and sang,

" _My fairy godmother will come someday_

 _And whisk me away to the ball_

 _And there I'll meet my prince charming_

 _And not have to work at all!"_

(Not quite as lyrically gifted as the Lark, perhaps, but it cheered her up and made Gavroche laugh, so she cared not.)

"Come and play dolls with me, 'Ponine," Azelma would call from her place at a little table in the corner of the inn, ignoring the way her older sister was scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees and muttering crossly under her breath. Azelma still wore her pretty blue pinafore and darling cap over her raven curls, and had not had to lift a finger to work since she was her mother's favorite. She was eight years old now, but couldn't understand why Eponine would work rather than play like she used to.

Eponine would sigh, sit up and give her a look that was really too tired for a ten-year-old. "I can't right now, 'Zelma. Maman said this has to be done. And it would be _really_ nice if I had some help."

"Get Gavroche to help," was Azelma's airy response as she brushed out her little doll's golden locks. "I'm busy with _important things_."

Gavroche was always eager to help, but there were some things she refused to let him do since he was "too little", as she scathingly told him (to hide her worry about his getting hurt).

So she would take Cosette's old job of retrieving water from the well in the forest behind their inn, even though the dark rather scared her too and the bucket was _so_ heavy.

She would stagger from the well with a full pail of water each night, no matter the weather, singing under her breath to calm her fears.

"' _Ponine, she knows her way about_

 _And isn't afraid of some silly night_

 _Everyone loves her very much because_

 _She is braver than anyone else."_

And surprisingly, the simple song held some sort of magic; the words would leave her lips, and she would straighten her spine and lift her chin, and suddenly the pail would feel a bit lighter, and she would walk homeward with a spring in her step and a smirk on her face.

 _Take that, darkness. You don't scare me!_

 _My name is Eponine Thenardier, and I am unafraid._

* * *

The girl liked to sing.

For although she declared herself unafraid, she was a little bit nervous as she stared out at the bustling city before her.

Paris. The Thenardiers' new home, eons away from Montfermeil.

Her parents had lost the inn due to their careless thievery, and now their family had to pay the price.

They'd fled the gendarmes and their sleepy little country town on foot; Papa had claimed that Paris was full of opportunities.

Eponine sure hoped so; they had lost everything, literally.

Azelma no longer had dolls to play with or cunning little caps to wear. She herself had given up her schoolbooks and the pink ribbons she was so vain to love. And Gavroche… well, he hadn't had much to begin with, but she could tell he was still scared to leave their home behind. The five-year-old clung to her hand and stared at the overwhelming Paris with hazel eyes wide, jaw agape.

"C'mon," their Maman growled with a light slap to each of their heads. She was more impatient and exhausted than usual, and her children's bickering on the long journey made her wish she'd never married that louse of a Thenardier. "We haven't got all day, you lazy lot!" And with that, she lifted her chin and marched into the thick of Paris. Papa rolled his eyes but followed her, motioning with irritation for them to come along.

Eponine scratched her lower back— the plain grey flannel dresses Maman had sewn for her and Azelma were annoyingly itchy— before taking both her younger siblings' hands in her rough ones and giving them a comforting squeeze. "It'll be okay. We'll be happy here." _I hope._

As they hurried to keep up with their parents among the throng of bourgeoisie and proletariat alike, Eponine saw that her siblings were growing frantic, so she hummed a tune they recognized over the din. Gavroche grinned and began to hum along, never one to be afraid for too long; Azelma merely smiled and drew closer to her older sister, but the fear never quite left her soft eyes.

Finally they reached a shabby little tenement on the outskirts of Paris, and Papa managed to scrounge up enough _sous_ to pay for a month's lodgings. (Eponine had seen him pick-pocketing some of the bourgeoisie he passed, but decided it was best to turn a blind eye to it.) They settled in wearily, and long into the night after the others were asleep, Eponine sat on the cot she and Azelma shared with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around them tight in an effort to keep herself warm.

A new life, a new beginning. What would become of them here?

She gazed down at Azelma and Gavroche, their innocent faces outlined by the dim moonlight peeking in through a crevice in the wall. What would they grow up to be?

She glanced up across the room at her snoring father and disgruntled-even-in-sleep mother. _They_ certainly wouldn't be any help in giving their children a decent life, despite their good intentions.

 _It's up to me_ , Eponine realized with a gravity most twelve-year-olds lacked. And so, with steel in her heart and determination in her amber eyes, she promised herself and her siblings that she would raise them right— even if this time there was no Lark to help her.

Hope had not completely deserted her; she closed her eyes tight and prayed that things would get better from here.

* * *

The girl liked to sing.

Although right now, singing was the last thing on her mind.

The fourteen-year-old darted down the streets of Paris like a shadow in the sunlight, her dirty chestnut hair flying out behind her in the breeze. Her breaths came quick and short, and her calculating amber eyes swept over the crowd for a familiar sandy head.

"How could you lose him, 'Ponine?" she scolded herself aloud as she paused to take a breath near the large marble elephant statue in the center of the city. She took a shaky breath and leaned against the cool marble for a second, folding her arms protectively over her chest in an effort to fight off the chilly November breeze. "He's only _seven_ , and you let him run off alone in this big city! You're an idiot!"

"Hey, would ya mind keepin' it down?" piped up a young voice as a little freckled face appeared over her head, hanging down from the top of the elephant. "Some of us are tryin' to get a nap in!"

She started and whirled around to face the freckled face, hands flying to her hips in big-sister fashion. "Gavroche Thenardier! What are you _doing_ up there? I've been looking for you all day!"

Her little brother smirked down at her, waving cheerfully. "Oh hey, Ep. Since when have ya been talkin' to yourself? People already think you're kinda nuts, y'know."

"Get down!" she cried in exasperation, but he shook his head.

"Can't leave my station."

"Oh, good grief," she muttered, lifting her tattered skirts and climbing up the rickety ladder underneath the elephant, then through the hole to where the hollowed-out statue left room enough for several adults to fit comfortably. Both Thenardiers were small for their ages and entirely too thin, so they found themselves with plenty of room.

Gavroche popped inside from the top of the elephant and settled himself on a makeshift bed of a scratchy wool blanket and a questionable pillow in the hollowed-out head, humming a little tune as he went.

Eponine regarded the bed and the other meager furnishings he'd set about with surprise. "You've made a little playhouse. That's cute, Gavroche."

He scowled, but his hazel eyes glimmered with excitement. "It's not a playhouse. It's my home."

Eponine's eyes widened in shock. "You can't be serious!"

Gavroche averted his gaze and shrugged, trying and failing to look careless. "It's nothin' against you or Zel, but I can't take another day in that hole with _those people_."

Eponine winced; their parents had never cared much for Gavroche, and he had finally realized it a couple years back, after they'd moved to Paris and he was left to fend for himself during the day. "I s'pose it was only a matter of time… but Gav, are you _sure_? You're still a kid— I can't just let you be on your own…"

He shrugged again, expression turning hopeful. "There's room in here for the both of us."

But Eponine was already shaking her head regretfully. "I wish I could! But you know I can't leave Azelma alone with them. She's not stubborn like we are; if I left, Papa would drag her in with Patron-Minette, and I can't let that happen." She frowned, pensive. "I'm supposed to take care of you two."

"I _do_ accept free food," her imp of a brother offered with a cheeky grin. "If you wanna keep carin' for me and all."

She rolled her eyes and tugged playfully at his disheveled hair. "Believe me, I know you like food! But I reckon you can pocket it just as good as I can."

He lifted his chin and said with exaggerated confidence, "You bet I can! All the same, I'll take that free food anytime."

Her smile died away. "I will come visit, Gavroche. Every day, to check up on you. Alright?"

The boy nodded, eager. "Sure. I'd like that, thanks. But I won't always be here, y'know— it's great fun to run about with the other gamins."

"And it should be! But I'd like to know you're alright all the same. So I'll come, and if I have any food on me I'll be glad to share."

Her brother sent her a pleased grin. "You're a good sister, Ep. You may be kinda crazy but I sort of love you."

She grinned back and leaned over to hug him, and he didn't even try to squirm out of it this time. "I love you too, rascal!" And with that, she slipped out of the hatch, bidding her brother a cheery goodbye and a promise to bring him a treat when she came the next day.

As she began to walk away from the elephant, transforming into a silent shadow once more, she heard the strains of a familiar song sung in a boyish voice, and she smiled despite her heavy-heartedness at leaving him behind. _He'll be alright._

* * *

The boy liked to sing.

He had a better knack at thinking up songs than his older sister, and used his overactive imagination to turn any and every situation into a ditty, much to the amusement of his fellow gamins and his revolutionary friends.

But now, he noticed, he wasn't the only one singing.

In the summer of 1832, everyone in Paris was singing the quiet but steady drumbeat of liberty, especially his revolutionary friends. Gavroche, of course, wanted to be in on the action— barricades and revolts were such jolly things to any ten-year-old boy— but when June rolled around, he remembered the older sister who had always looked out for him, and decided there were a few things he needed to take care of before he went into the fight. (Because he _would_ be fighting, no matter what Enjolras said.)

On June 5th, Eponine swung herself up into the elephant, fished around in the deep pockets of her tan trench coat, and produced a thin crust of bread, which she handed to her little brother. "Sorry it's not much; pickings were slim today. You get anything?"

But he grinned widely and took the bread with eager hands. "Thanks, Ep! Nah, Courf's gotten me out of the stealin' business. Today's been too busy anyway— Lemarque is dead, y'know, and the boys are gettin' ready to act finally. I only came back here to get a few hours of shuteye before the fight."

Eponine grew very pale. "You're not going to the barricades! I won't let you!"

"You're not the boss of me!" the boy retorted. "I've been doin' my own thing for three years; why can't I do this?"

"Because I can't let you die!" Eponine shouted back, her voice echoing inside the hollow elephant.

Gavroche quieted, eyes growing unusually sober. "Ep…"

"You don't understand, Gavroche!" She drew her knees up under her chin and buried her head in them, as she had done so many times as a young girl when she was growing fearful. "I'm your sister— I'm supposed to make sure you don't get hurt!"

"But I won't," the boy protested, with classic ten-year-old short-sightedness. "Little people are better at gettin' out of scrapes than grown ones, I'd imagine."

Eponine lifted her chin, and he was stunned to see tears gathering in her eyes. He had no idea what to do with a crying female. "There's no guarantees, Gav," she told him with an ironic twist of her lips.

"Look, I _promise_ I won't die, alright? You don't have to worry about me, Ep," he told her with confidence, little dreaming that it would end up being _her_ that he'd have to worry about.

The next day, he sang his cheerful songs as they marched at Lemarque's funeral, as they built the barricades, as he grabbed a gun and darted in and out of the barricade among the rest of the students, his friends.

He stopped singing when he realized that Eponine had been shot.

Why bother to sing when the one who had given him a song was no more?

She was the one who used to sing him to sleep— the only person whom he'd never doubted loved him, even if they didn't often say the words to each other.

The ray of sunshine dimmed for a heartbroken moment— but then brightened again when Joly began working on her wounds and declared stoutly that she _would_ live, if he could help it.

Gavroche let out a relieved laugh, wiped frantically at his tears and snotty nose with his dirty sleeve, and ran back to the barricade with a renewed spring in his step, a new song in his head.

The National Guard had dared to shoot his sister.

They were _so_ going down.

* * *

The boy liked to sing.

Even though he wanted nothing more than to be outside with the other boys as they and the rest of the people celebrated their newfound freedom, as they worked towards building a new government, he found himself spending the first week or two after the barricades at his sister's bedside (in the Lark's house, of all places), amusing her with tales of the events she'd missed while unconscious, and funny little songs he came up with on the spot.

She had once sang to him when he needed her; now it was time to return the favor.

It wasn't long before Eponine was up and walking again; she was wounded in the shoulder, and her left hand was mangled, but she had the Thenardier will and kept insisting to anyone who asked that she was _perfectly fine_.

She couldn't go back to Papa and Maman, though, not with her injuries. They wouldn't accept her if she was unable to do their bidding. Gavroche didn't even bother pretending he wasn't happy about this new development.

"You're free!" he told her excitedly as they walked to the Café Musain one morning in late June, her leaning on his shoulder for support. "We're both free, just like we've always wanted!"

Eponine grinned, dimpling. "I s'pose we are." Her voice was filled with wonder. She wasn't wearing her tattered dress and trench coat anymore; Cosette had insisted that she accept a few of her own lovely dresses as a gift. So Eponine was now wearing a simple but fine pink dress, and she was clean, her chestnut hair falling in loose curls down her back. Really, except for the bandaged hand, she was beginning to look like a proper lady. "I wish we could rescue Azelma though," she added, frowning as she thought of the sweet younger sister she hadn't seen in almost a month.

Gavroche shrugged, ever the cheerful one. Between his student friends and his sister, he was now well-fed, cared for, and perfectly happy. "If she even _wants_ to be rescued, what's stoppin' us?"

The two siblings shared a grin, for he was right: they had escaped, they had lived, and there was nothing stopping them now.

And so what else would they do but sing?

 ** _{and so, a new song begins}_**

* * *

 **A/N: Reviews keep our favorite Thenardiers alive and singing. ;) Thank you so much for reading!**

 **{love, Lady Stormbraver}**


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